


Sky and Moon, Part I

by bendy_quill



Series: Moon and Stars [3]
Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel), Choices - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23975347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendy_quill/pseuds/bendy_quill
Summary: It was easy to push down all that she was at first—there was no need for her to be anything else aside from the haughty and unapproachable mageling. But what he mistook for haughtiness was what pride she still held despite the histories evading her most of her life. What he mistook for unapproachable was the wall she built over time to prevent others from seeing her as weak and easy to exploit. The same way he used the hard lessons learned from his youth to forge protection against the cutthroat nature of Undermount’s political landscape, Ashala built what she could with the materials she had and it worked.
Relationships: Tyril Starfury/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow), Tyril Starfury/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Moon and Stars [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722727
Kudos: 2





	Sky and Moon, Part I

It starts innocently enough.

The road to Undermount is long and arduous—a trek through cities and villages overrun with ever suspicious humes, bounty hunters likely tracking them from Port Parnassus, opportunistic bandits, and deceitful merchants—ending only once they reach the edge between the vibrant world and the ominous Deadwood. It’ll take them weeks to pass through to Undermount at most, days if they stay the course with minimal distractions.

“With all due respect, Nia—your words are clear and pure in their intent, but not a lick of this matters to me.”

“The foremost scholars—”

Ashala stretches her hands high, the white cords of her hair fall over her shoulder as her chest pushes forward, and she rises to her feet.

“I believe in nothing concerning the Light, but its influence was not ignored throughout my tutelage,” she says. Nia pouts and opens her mouth. “You have your teachings and I have mine. How I pull my power matters little—how effective I am in wielding it will always be my first concern.”

“Pulling from the Light grants a strength that cannot be found in other forms,” Nia counters. “There is Light within all of us—reaching down through the depths exposes this and grants us abilities beyond what we are capable of without it.”

Ashala stares, golden eyes sweeping over Nia and flitting towards Tyril. He averts his gaze, instead focusing on the blade lying across his lap. He runs a whetstone over the metal rhythmically, silently timing every swipe of the stone to an old jingle from his youth.

Everything is unbearable these days, aggravating even. Travel on meager rations and little sleep does nothing to temper the rising tensions between all of them, but he knows better than to blame such minor issues on that alone. For a brief moment, he allows himself a glance in Ashala’s direction and her warm gaze shifts upon someone else. A tilt of his head would tell him exactly where it goes.

Mal stretches across a fallen log—his temporary perch until morning comes. His dark eyes lock with Ashala’s and a familiar look swims about them. If she feels anything about the interaction, her face betrays little. Instead she moves towards her pack, black cloak trailing through the dirt and mud, and kneels down so she can rummage through her things.

“Regardless of the philosophy, the answer remains the same,” Ashala says, plucking a few instruments from her bag and rising to her feet. “I am not training with you, Nia. Your medicinal skills are most valuable and I’ll not risk impairing you.”

Nia huffs. “Well, it still isn’t a good idea to go off by yourself! At the very least, take someone along with you!”

Ashala lets out a long sigh. Her eyes scan the length of the camp—Imtura sits further off looking on with a bemused expression on her face and Mal sits up, tilting his head ever so slightly. Tyril raises his head and finds her staring back. An unsettling quiet fills the space between them. They are stock still for a moment, the complete opposite of predator and prey. His gaze will not be moved and neither will hers. If they were standing they might circle one another. If given the room, their bodies might coil and their magic would spark and clash.

Her mouth opens and, despite everything, he can hear his name clearly on the tip of her tongue. He can hear the sultry whisper of it, the way her voice hovers over the first syllable and how her tongue rolls right into the next.

“Mal,” she says instead, turning towards the smirking rogue, “come.”

An uncomfortable silence follows as the two of them push through the bramble and brush. Mal’s arm snakes around her waist and pulls her in.

The whetstone hits the ground and Tyril walks in the other direction. Footsteps follow behind him—lumbering and heavy—and he ignores them for as long as his feet carry him.

He moves down past the brush and into the paths still dotted with lush patches of green. Elves are used to hard things. Rock and earth blend in a daunting mix, their combined use birthing the grand doorways and golden arcs that house what remains of the last living elves in all Morella. Hard is nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. It almost outweighs the softness all around him but then he starts thinking of home all over again and dashes those thoughts in an instant. Small critters scatter out of his way and his brow furrows.

“Seem to have a habit of running things off, elf.”

Tyril tosses an annoyed look back at Imtura, who follows behind him with both hands on her hips and not a single ounce of concern in her body.

“You’ll not fool me with this act, orc,” he counters, whipping back around. “There’s nothing of interest going on. You may return back to camp…Or at the least, spare me from having to pretend you weren’t just trying to pry into my life when I told you all to leave it unexplored.”

She huffs a laugh and he hates that sound. It’s a mix of haughty and arrogant that reminds him a little too much of home, senseless as it sounds.

“You’re having a spat, elf. The two of you will get over it soon enough,” she says, her words somewhat muffled like she’s picking at her tusks.

He seethes for a little while, refusing to dignify the statement with a response. How many times would the governess smack his fingers for this? How many times did his mother pull him in front of the oldest painting hanging on the library wall? How many times did she tell him the story of Aether and the silk sap tree, the picture perfect story of how stoicism brings honor and showing a hand so quickly is a sign of weakness?

How many times will he think of home and think of Ashala? How many times will he let his arrogance bludgeon him?

“This is stupid,” he mutters, knowing full well Imtura can hear him regardless.

“Love—”

“Don’t!” He snaps towards her, low growl rumbling in his throat and teeth bared. Her body braces as if ready to strike and they stare each other down for a long, silent minute. Heat bubbles in him, crackling with an energy all too familiar to him and coursing to his fingertips. Tyril steps back and takes a breath—two—three—before he remembers himself and where he stands. With whom he stands. A small moment of quiet settles between the two of them before he speaks. “Don’t go throwing around words like that. Nothing of the sort exists between Ashala and I.”

Imtura raises a brow at him and he turns away.

“You elves like to make things complex when they don’t need to be,” she says, approaching a stump and taking a seat. “All the weird titles—kelvali and den-something—”

“Kilvali and Dinvali,” he corrects. “Spiritual connection and physical attraction. It makes perfect sense to anyone with a working mind.”

“If you think along those lines, sure. But you ain’t dealing with an average situation back home.”

Back home is different, that much he has long since come to terms with. There was a time where he knew his place was determined and he did everything he could to attain the goals already set for him. His house’s pride became his pride, his desires became everything the house needed in order to thrive. Working towards a singular goal meant the entire house—from the main family to the sub family, even down to the lowliest servant—did whatever needed doing so that Ascendant would eventually fall into their laps.

Whatever needed doing.

Tyril crosses his arms and watches two rabbits dart into the clearing, their little bodies hopping over to the stream and their heads bowing as they sip from the clear water.

Imtura leans back and sighs heavily.

“Have you ever slept with someone for the sake of it?” she asks and he bites his lip. “You ever see a man so fine, you just had to stop him in his tracks and have at him for a bit? How did that work where you came from?”

He chuckles but there’s no humor in his tone.

“You’ll think me pathetic for admitting the truth,” he says. Even still, the memories are no less fond. The moments in between are no less important to him even as he recalls every face, every name he whispered in the dark. “We form bonds the same as everyone else—friendships, romances, liaisons built on sex and nothing else. There was propriety to consider—ah, reputation, when it came to who you spoke to and who you built a connection with. Most of the relationships I knew of other houses were borne out of political social climbing. I rarely met couples that shared the bond of both kilvali and dinvali. That’s taboo where I come from.”

“Hmph,” Imtura snorts. “Complicated. Unnecessarily so.”

“Not everyone gets so easily riled with feats of strength,” he says.

Imtura flexes an arm, fully displaying the pure power laced within every muscle. “We have our own traditions and whatnot—things that get us hot and bothered. But,” she waves her hand as she drops her arm, “this ain’t about me. It’s about why you can’t seem to figure out how to talk to Ashala.”

He frowns deeply. “We speak just fine.”

Imtura hits him with an incredulous look. “You’ve had lovers before, right?”

“Three,” he answers. “But the person I would’ve married was not one of them. She was everything to me but I would never lay with her.”

A small silence settles between them as Imtura ponders his words.

“She would’ve been your wife but you didn’t lo—er…you weren’t into her like…”

“I wouldn’t have slept with her at any point, no,” he finally says. Tyril moves and sits on a log not far from Imtura. The conversation tires him to the point that his legs cannot keep him upright. It’ll be another crisp night if the small but bitter chill of the wind is any indication. “I cared for her,” he says, rubbing his hands together, “but it would’ve been obvious that our marriage was a political one.”

“And the ones you did care about?” Imtura asks. “The ones you…felt strongly about?”

His mouth opens and then closes it. His eyes glaze over and he stares off into the distance.

There were moments in between, most of them fleeting and most of them hidden from the prying eyes of Undermount’s court. The grand game is constant and ever evolving. If there was a point he ever felt he could relax, his instincts would refuse him that respite. House heads were not afraid to use whatever means necessary to secure an advantage, a match, or even a small chance at fueling a rumor.

He can count on both hands and feet the number of times he found himself the target of some lesser house’s pursuits. His tastes were widely known—they had to be if the lesser houses wanted a chance to ascend using him. Conversation was his strong suit, yet another way to engage in battle using wit and wiles, and he reveled in the challenge of those that knew his status. He loved knowing he was sought after because he knew very few would succeed in using him to their full advantage. He was too smart, too condescending at times. Most of the lesser houses have long since been out of practice in traversing the upper echelons of society, but there were those that pressed forward regardless.

Tyril closes his eyes and breathes slowly.

Arrindale—who was the most beautiful man he’d ever known. Witty beyond reason, more daring than he had the right to be. He was absolutely splendid, his family sigil branded in gold all across his body and his eyes were the most brilliant shade of green. The first person Tyril had ever laid with—the very first that walked away from him when his family realized no match would ever come between the two of them so long as House Starfury sought the title of Ascendant.

“Arrindale was my first,” he starts. “The first time I ever slept with anyone was with him. We were young and he was my friend for a long time before we shared that first night together. His family found him a match with someone that could provide a more immediate boost to their social status than mine. I attended his wedding.”

Pythia—the woman that tried to kill him. She was small for an elf but much more resourceful than she had any right to be. Her face never knew a smile for her role in her house was relegated to “fixer.” Every family has one—the one belonging to his house was almost always out and about, trying to put a stop to a situation or prevent it from becoming a scandal before it even starts. Pythia Nightcrest was one of the best duelists in all Undermount and they deeply despised each other because he knew. He knew it was her that snuck into his family’s home one night and nearly ended his life, but his house could never prove it. Every dinner they spent in each other’s presence was wrought with tension. Every encounter could turn bloody at any moment. But even still—

“My second was a woman that tried to assassinate me.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips as Imtura lets out a raucous howl of laughter. “Our families allied some time afterward and every minute I spent around her was tense. Despite that, I was a brasher man once upon a time—and perhaps a bit more invested in the physical aspects of what that relationship could provide. We were supposed to be training the night we first slept together. She had a hold on me I couldn’t l ever shake.”

“Where’s that one at? I’d kill to meet her,” Imtura says, wiping tears from her eyes.

His smile falters.

“Dead,” he answers, sitting upright and clasping his hands together. “Another house attempted to assassinate the head of hers and she died protecting him.”

Imtura balks and grows quiet. “Ah, I…”

“It’s alright. I’ve long since come to terms with it.”

And the last of them—Lusehene. He was the most arrogant and proud man he had ever come to know. Only son of House Starfire, one of the few true rivals to ever hold equal ground to the Starfury name. They were alike in too many ways, a bad match personality-wise but it mattered little. It was Lusehene’s sister that his parents were more concerned with but they never knew of the truth behind the extensive library trips and the long days out he’d spend with Kaya as a cover. Their bond was the closest Tyril had to encroaching taboo—their likeness was comforting and their interactions were far too easy to indulge. Lusehene was umber too, much like Ashala. His hair was white and his eyes were golden. His words were always careful but his haughty demeanor always changed with Tyril.

“The last was Lusehene,” Tyril says, running a hand down his face. “He loved me. I know he did.”

Imtura stares at him for a moment. “He dead too?”

“Scholar.” Tyril lets out a weary breath. “Our bond was discovered and it thrust him in an uncomfortable position—court me for the sake of growing his family’s political power, or step back so they could pursue a match between his sister and I as they originally intended.” He remembers that day vividly—the tears and the stiffness in every move they made. He remembers holding Lusehene tighter to him, pressing his body closer than they had ever been as they shared that last night together. “He rebelled. The fool gave up everything for his love and…and I didn’t return it. I couldn’t, I…I was a different person then. I knew he loved me…and I truly did care for him but I wasn’t…I wasn’t the same person then.”

He looks down and his heart sinks to the pit of his stomach.

“Your love life isn’t exactly all kitten and sparkles, that’s for sure,” Imtura remarks. “One married, one dead, one person you rejected outright… But we all know what’s going on around here—we’ve got eyes, ya know?”

How could they not know?

It’s the worst kept secret between all of them. The fleeting looks tell all the story needed—her quiet is almost always certain but even in the moments where the silence hangs heavy, there’s a hidden layer he can always find his way into with ease. She told him she hated him in the beginning and she was right to. Ashala Venralei was a lowlander, a Lost Child, and he was a fool for seeing only what he wanted.

He ignored the glowing white marks, dotted and dusted all over her skin—familiar star patterns crisscrossing all over her body, the remnants of what stories her parents carried away from the homeland and supplanted in her young mind. He ignored the wisdom set within eyes that burned brighter than the sun, years upon years of generational pain marring her understanding of a world that refused to teach her but still could not stem the raw hunger for said knowledge stewing in her. He ignored the careful constructs of her magic and the frightening restraint in all her movements. He ignored the building storm that lay dormant within her.

It was easy to push down all that she was at first—there was no need for her to be anything else aside from the haughty and unapproachable mageling. But what he mistook for haughtiness was what pride she still held despite the histories evading her most of her life. What he mistook for unapproachable was the wall she built over time to prevent others from seeing her as weak and easy to exploit. The same way he used the hard lessons learned from his youth to forge protection against the cutthroat nature of Undermount’s political landscape, Ashala built what she could with the materials she had and it worked.

It worked until they came along.

A priestess of the Light—

And an orcish pirate—

A rogue adventurer—

Tyril frowns.

He’s been a fool many times in his life and he’d be remiss to believe he’d ever stop being foolish in situations where the solution should be simple.

She’s changed him. Maybe he’s changed her in some way too.

“I wish it could be that simple,” he mutters.

“It can be,” Imtura counters. She leans forward, placing a large hand on her knee and snorts. “You’re not used to how people do things out here and that’s fine. If we all knew the answers to everything, it wouldn’t make life as fun to explore. But this whole thing with you and Ash? It’s not good for any of us.”

He sighs heavily. How pathetic to have the one person in the group who cares little for such antics stating the obvious? “I know.”

What else is there to say? What more could he possibly say?

Imtura stares at him for a moment, likely trying to gauge if violence might’ve been the best form of recourse after all but she remains rooted in her spot. He’d almost prefer the violence if it meant not having to pour more thought into the next course of action.

“I’m not saying ‘make a miracle happen.’” She rises to her feet and stretches. “But the Deadwood is right on the horizon. We need everyone to be on their game if we want to survive the trip through and that means we need none of these complications.” She tosses one more look at him before she turns on her heel and marches back towards the camp. “Figure it out, elf.”

Alone once more with only his thoughts to mock him and his pride to remind him that he never stopped being the arrogant man he thought he left back in Undermount. Lusehene, Arrindale, Pythia—perhaps the closest he’s ever come to sharing similar sentiments with this strange woman who burrowed her way into his terrible heart. But even so, what his past taught him is that everyone holds their own desires when it comes to intimacy.

What Arrindale desired of him was power at first. Something to secure title and wealth for his struggling family until he forgot the most important rule—remain stoic until death. Never give in to anything because love means nothing compared to survival.

What Pythia desired of him was an escape. Her fate was sealed the moment she was born to a house that saw her only worth in the blood she could shed. Theirs was a romance woven by flesh, through heated touches and seared into skin that burned away all that plagued them, haunted them, and threatened to consume them.

Tyril briefly shuts his eyes and steadies his breath. What Lusehene desired most was a chance to be whole and true with the man he had come to love. Titles be damned and status be damned—there were more important things than ascendance between them and Tyril knew that then. He knew it but he wasn’t deserving of such intimacy, such devotion.

Young and stupid is an excuse, perhaps. But even then it has nothing to do with age and everything to do with benefit. Nobility means more than just being, it’s the process of assurance that matters just as much. He must be this, he must hold himself above the underserving and court power from those that can push his house to the next step on the ladder to Ascendant. Friendships had to be tailored to benefit him and romance—

His eyes snap open and his hands curl into fists.

Tyril stands and takes one more breath—one more whiff of the crisp air, thick forest, and wet earth beneath his feet.

The path back to camp is long and he thinks there is resolve within his heart. He will wait until the sun sets beyond the trees and submerges the group in darkness. The full moon will hang over their heads tonight and he whispers a prayer to Gallius.


End file.
